Au Milieu de la Nuit
by Amaranth the Immortal
Summary: While working for the royal family in Persia, Erik stumbles upon a grimey, broken girl that the shah has taken an interest in. Will the love that binds them together be strong enough to survive the calamities they face at every turn? EC AT Leroux!based
1. Prologue

AN: I can't believe I've been in love with this novel for nearly two years and am only now beginning to write fanfiction for it. Usually, it takes only a month of love for me to get the itch to leave my mark on the fandom. I've certainly been getting enough ideas for POTO, but have never gotten around to actually writing them down; I think I feared that I'd not do well and leave just a mass of unfinished garbage in my place. I've done everything I can, however, to ensure that this isn't garbage. The only problem I have now is staying with it long enough to reach completion. So, please, if you find that I haven't updated for a good few weeks, hound me mercilessly to continue, because I really want to finish this story and get it out in the world since, frankly, I adore it. I've been caring for this tale for months and I really don't want to see it go to waste. Sometimes, however, life does get in my way, and my stories sometimes get pushed to the side. If such a thing happens, bother me constantly until I post something new. Oftentimes, I just need a little push, though I doubt this'll happen a lot seeing as I love this story so much!

Anyway, if you see anything wrong gramatically or content wise, please tell me so I can correct it. I love Phantom, so I'd have endless appreciation for any tips you can offer me about my writing or anything in general; I love all of it!

Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom of the Opera (if I did, Christine would have found some way to pick Erik and see what she was missing)

IMPORTANT NOTE!: This is based on Leroux's novel about Erik's life in Persia. Typically when one thinks of Erik's past, Susan Kay's book comes to the mind of all who've read it. But seeing as this is based on Leroux and not Kay, none of her little details will be included, except by mistake (which, if that happens, don't hesitate to correct me!). Leroux hardly gave any details about Erik's time during the Rosy Hours, leaving it blissfully open for authors like me to play around in. Hopefully, you'll enjoy my story and its take on all things Persian, kind reader!

**Prologue: Sur les Ailes Encore de la Solitude**

Night had quietly fallen on Tehran, the capital city of the great kingdom of Persia, and the people slowly slunk back to their homes, most exhausted from a long day of constant haggling in the market. Their heavy, ripped cloaks dragged on the dirt behind them, the hem getting coated in a thin layer of dust and dirty water. Lanterns shone from the doorways of hovels in the backstreets, fighting back the inky blackness of the starless sky and projecting a dim orange glow out into the clear, though heavy, air. Everyone's eyes were hooded from fatigue and misery. Life was not pleasant, for they had to struggle for every scrap, often resorting to heinous crimes in their desperation, while their Shah resided comfortably in his golden palace, surrounded by jewels and silk. No one dared mention the unfair balance of power. It was death to all who dared speak of the royal family without praise, and no one really wanted to anyway. Hope for a brighter future had long since been tossed out into the cruel, sweltering deserts that surrounded them, their hatred just being the unpleasant taste in the backs of their mouths and the sizzling in their stomachs.

In one of the extravagant apartments not far away from the Shah's brilliant palace, the frightening black magician, the Angel of Doom, worked quietly over his latest genius device. Silence weighed heavily in the room, just daring someone to disturb the stillness. This masked man, the shah's magician by day and assassin by night, fiddled calmly with the small electric gadget before him, wielding a small screwdriver with a minute metal head. Crimson blood still stained the cuff of his black silk shirt, undetectable with the naked eye of any average man. But this was not a normal human, and his eyes were distracted by the dried, rusty fluid leftover from the latest mission the Shah sent him on. He made no move to rise and cleanse his garment, only twisting his lips into a sadistic smile before focusing back to his invention.

Erik's steady hands worked quickly and efficiently with the small tools littering his cluttered desk under the careful watch of a dozen steadily burning black candles scattered randomly around his working space. His breathing was calm and quiet, his fingers stable with confidence, the only sign of irritation being the slight crease between his eyebrows beneath the black silk mask. He worried his tongue between his teeth, but his eyes remained fixed on his project, adjusting minute complications to make his small device flawless. Everything crafted by his scarred, imperfect hands must be seamless and without fault. It was his way of balancing the scales, keeping his forever boiling hatred toward humanity and his monstrous face inside by evening out his hideousness with pure beauty.

A sharp knock rapped against the door that led to his private Persian apartments. He released his tongue from its prison and breathed a long suffering sigh, but didn't still his working hands. There was no question who the visitor was, for no one except one person dared to call upon him, especially so late at night. Rumors stemmed from his haunting reputation, making everyone believe he bathed in a tub of blood, still warm and fresh from the body, every night before retiring, and no one wanted to interrupt such a ritual. Not one person would volunteer to call on him except the daroga, who only did it because he had to, never because he wanted to. Distrust flowed heavily between them, each dreading the other's company since it only brought frustration and pounding headaches for them both.

"Erik?" a deep voice inquired through the door. Another knock came, this time with more force and the use of both hands. "Erik!"

"What?" the magician hissed, still continuing with his endless adjustments and speaking in the Persian tongue. The crease between his eyes grew more pronounced beneath his mask, and he hunched further over his desk.

"The khanum wishes to see you tonight," the daroga said gravely. His voice was firm and determined, as if he knew a battle was coming and he had to brace himself. Erik sneered at this tone and didn't respond, only letting out an exasperated huff when he couldn't locate his quill to take a few minor notes on his nearby parchment. He always made sure to keep paper next to him for easy access. The same couldn't be said for his quill, which often retained the qualities of the goose it used to belong to and was often wandering off. He'd find it in some obscure corner later when he didn't need it, like under his settee or, on one occasion, jammed in the toe of his shoe. That particular mystery had yet to be solved.

"Erik, she wishes to see you immediately," the daroga called through the door again, this time having a desperate plea as an undertone.

"Well, then I'm afraid I must disappoint her," Erik finally answered, discovering his quill in the decorative pot beside his desk. At least it wasn't the strangest place he'd found it. "I'm much too busy tonight."

"No, you're not. You were just complaining to me this morning about having nothing to do, but entertain the court, thereby leaving you with an extensive amount of free time. The shah has assigned you no project."

"I assigned myself one," the masked magician snapped, jotting down a quick observation to the parchment with his customary red ink in his typical angry, awkward scrawl, more resembling a young schoolboy's shaking, nervous hand rather than the confident genius of a man who was actually writing it.

"That's not a good enough reason." Erik could hear the daroga shaking his head back and forth, solemnly. "The khanum would never accept it."

"Then come up with a better excuse yourself and go tell her," Erik muttered sharply, just loud enough for his visitor to hear through the heavy oak door. "I'm much too tired tonight to put up with her mind games."

"Oh, so now you're just tired," the daroga responded smugly. "I thought you had an important personal project to do and were simply too busy; you're just feeling a bit fatigued instead. I should've guessed you'd try to get out of this summons with your petty, commonplace lies."

"Commonplace is the key word," Erik responded tiredly. "You saw through my ruse immediately, daroga. There was no use in keeping up the pretense. Even I don't think you're quite that slow."

"Erik…," the daroga warned, abruptly growing stern again, showing his irritation. "The khanum wants you _now_. I warn you, you don't want to be out of her favor."

Erik heaved an exhausted sigh and gritted his teeth, throwing down his quill and hoisting himself up from his chair. He stalked over to the door, his spine stiff and his face beneath the mask pulled taut with annoyance. He reached out his leather glove clad hand and wrenched the door open suddenly with tremendous force. The daroga flinched in both surprise and fear, but quickly steeled himself and hardened his gaze into a stern frown that appeared completely harmless under the smoldering heat of Erik's glower of resentment.

"Is it important?" Erik asked shortly though his grinding teeth.

"The khanum expects an audience with you which automatically makes it important enough; you should be honored."

"That's coming from the policeman," Erik replied coolly, his temper reigned in so it just flickered in his gaze. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms in front of his chest and eyeing the daroga with an unwavering frown. "Do you think a request from one such as the khanum would have more of an effect on me than if a beggar demanded my company? In the eyes of a killer, who, I'll add, has no morals, everyone is the same." His frown deepened into an introverted scowl, as memories of horrors long past clouded his sharp yellow eyes. "It's both a priceless gift and the most dreadful curse."

The daroga had stopped listening to the madman by this point. His mind was one of a policeman, and to hear someone speaking so disrespectfully of the ruling family, even though he might not agree with their methods and some of their actions, filled him with the typical patriotic fury.

"Get down to the khanum immediately, magician," he growled, his voice low and piercing brown eyes glittering with sparks as he stared directly at Erik. It certainly would have been more dramatic had he not been more than a foot shorter.

Erik laughed gleefully, his eyes, the only part of his face that was visible, beaming with mirth. He tilted his head and stared down at the daroga, letting go of a few more giggles before the fit subsided.

"Have I somehow insulted you with my disrespect?" he asked mockingly, the laughter still ringing in his voice. As the daroga grew red with anger, Erik only became more amused. "The khanum is the most important woman in Persian royal society, therefore making her extremely significant and vital to a man of the law, though she means nothing to me. Regardless of my views, however, society here is run by those pesky guidelines of rules and law." Erik started to make his way down the hall, sniggering over his shoulder. "But what law may I ask is that? You're certainly doing a horrible job of enforcing it, considering how the citizens of Tehran run rampant, with crimes being their primary source of income."

He chuckled darkly at the daroga's indignant expression before making his way towards the khanum's chambers. His mood quickly turned somber and subdued. Whenever the khanum asked for him, she always wanted something from him that would distract him from his regular duties, and with her being such a conniving, shifty snake, her desires were often not agreeable.

The daroga watched Erik disappear around the corner through a fog of fury. Wherever had that ridiculous Frenchman developed such a fearless countenance towards disrespect? It triggered his instinctual pugnacious reactions as the head of police.

The daroga turned to follow after the magician, knowing that the khanum would want him to be there to escort Erik back to his apartments. Something caught his eye before he could take a step, though, and that was the blatantly obvious fact that Erik had left the door open, probably letting it slip his mind in his amusement over the daroga's incensed reaction to his degrading comments about the khanum. He knew he should be getting on to the khanum's personal chambers to wait for Erik to be released, but the daroga quickly found that his curiosity was insatiable; he had to have a peek inside the Angel of Doom's quarters.

Knowing that he didn't have much time for delay, the daroga stepped halfway inside the grand, luxurious room, sweeping it with his sharp gaze and looking out for anything that could catch his attention. He mercifully didn't have a difficult time finding anything, since Erik had apparently left out all sort of architectural blueprints and random sketches out in the open on the small table near the fireplace, probably assuming that no one would dare invade his quarters to see them. The penalty would, without a doubt, be death by strangulation, Erik's favorite kind, if the trespasser was caught. Erik was like a bear in a cave; he rarely ventured out except for necessities and was extremely protective of everything beneath his roof. It would take a miracle for someone to earn his trust enough to have permission to enter, and the daroga doubted such a thing would ever happen. No one would be desperate or insane enough to spend so much time with Erik to gain his confidence; it was simply impossible.

Worn, yellow papers were scattered all over that shadowy corner of the room, resting on the settee cushions, the lush Persian carpets, and on any other small tables within an arm's reach. Even the daroga, with his very basic knowledge of architecture, could tell that these sketches were works of pure genius, the designs being flawless in their structure, support and beauty. Each one was completely different from the last; one mapping out a glorious church with an extravagant steeple and another was of a simple cottage with breathtakingly gorgeous style and a comforting aura.

When his eyes fell on the plans for a palace, filled with secret passages and other conjurer's tricks, resembling a maze of corridors with hidden branches spreading out in every direction offering endless places to hide and lurk, he knew that he would have to mention his discovery of another section of Erik's genius to the Shah.

And he was surprised to feel a bit guilty for such an invasion of privacy.

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><p>The khanum thankfully didn't have much to say to Erik when he arrived at her chambers that night. She was perched atop a pile of thick cushions gathered around her on the hard surface of a raised platform. This large square pedestal resided in the center of the room with violet transparent draperies suspended around it from the ceiling, concealing the khanum residing within with the exception of her silhouette. Flickering crimson and plum colored candles were spread throughout the room, creating a thick, smoke filled atmosphere and turning the room a dull orange color with the steady flames.<p>

The gauze curtains were pulled aside by two scantily clad harem girls, the only other people in the room, revealing the khanum with her heavily made up face, perfectly curvy, luscious bronze body clothed in thin gauze fabrics and her usual cruel mocking smile twisting her plump deep red lips beneath a gauze cloth. Her hair was as black as her soul, pouring down her back in thick straight sheets, looking as empty and endless as the void leading to Death.

"My dear Erik!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands together softly in front of her. Her brown eyes, so dark and crusted with inky pencil marking that they appeared black, were blank and emotionless just like always, but her face and posture lit up in delight. "You finally appear."

Erik dipped his head forward slowly in a bow, bending over gracefully in submission, yet somehow held onto a silent, infuriatingly superior, mocking air. The khanum pretended not to notice.

"I was delayed, lady khanum," he replied, keeping his eyes plastered to the lush carpets beneath his feet, hiding the sardonic glint in his eyes. Royalty always caused a contemptuous taste to spring to the back of his mouth, and it was a constant job to conceal it from spectators. The only time he let himself slip was in front of the daroga, just as he had that night in the hall.

The khanum was silent, causing Erik to grow still and cautious. Controlling the emotion in his eyes, he lifted his gaze up to meet the older woman's. Electricity sparked and flowed between them in a battle of wits, Erik immediately recognizing the poisonous twinkle in her expression and growing tense in his mind. His posture and position still remained loose and relaxed. The quiet stretched for a long time, the two harem girls watching the encounter with stiff, frightened eyes from their places on single cushions in the shadowed corners.

"I just wanted to ask you something, Erik," the khanum finally said, her attention unwavering.

"Yes, lady khanum?" Erik prodded. He did not back down either.

"Do you enjoy being alone in those rooms?" she inquired derisively, a sadistic flash sharpening her face. At his silence, she continued, "Doesn't it make you feel forlorn, being all on your lonesome? You're abandoned, probably been deserted from birth; it can't be a pleasant business, being friendless."

Erik felt resentment warm his veins, his eyes sparking with ire.

'_You're the one who has no friends,_' he responded in his mind, averting his gaze so he could scowl at the ground. A childhood filled with taunts, jeers, violence and pain made him a dangerous sight to behold as a man, since he had obtained the ability to strike back. The khanum was awakening the instinctual response to retaliate with just a few sentences, and Erik bitterly cursed himself for his weakness, before hardening himself and detaching his mind from the situation.

"I enjoy the quiet," he answered softly, venom injected into his tone. The khanum wasn't impressed and giggled insultingly for a long, drawn out moment. She slowly grew quiet and observant once more, staring him down and growing irritated with his emotionless silence.

"Tell me," she began silkily, tilting her head and eyeing him with her hooded smoky gaze, "have you ever experienced a woman's personal intentions? Have you ever allowed yourself the luxury?"

He could tell by the look in her eyes that the silence told her all she needed to know.

"You were never loved, were you, Erik?"

'_No…'_

"If this is all you have to speak with me about, then I must ask to be dismissed," he replied, attempting to remain calm and neutral in the face of her cunning and vile spirit. He could not hide the way his eyes blazed with a fiery rage. He only had two options, for all else had been deleted by a sudden onslaught of memories from his childhood. Usually he could push away such recollections, but the khanum's question had struck a nerve and her directness hit home. He had to either leave immediately or strangle her with his Punjab lasso, nestled sleepily in his pocket.

The khanum seemed to realize the same thing, because her blank eyes sparkled with mirth at getting past his defenses so easily. If she had known that all it would take was lighting a few candles that had mind numbing drugs previously injected into the wax, she would have struck out at him much sooner. The gauze mask shielding her mouth kept the smoke from affecting her, making her all the more resilient a foe.

"Very well, Erik. You may leave."

Erik wasted no time and stalked out of the room, his spine pulled tight with tension. He brushed right past the daroga, shivering with the force of his anger. This shudder was so small; it went by the daroga completely unnoticed. Erik still retained his façade of calm, keeping up the pretense of the aloof, calculating court magician and assassin, and he prided himself from that.

The khanum would never make him snap. This he could swear as the Angel of Doom, the Prince of Strangulation, and the Lover of Trapdoors. Nothing would ever break through his defenses for he made certain he held absolutely nothing close to his heart.

AN: Yay, first chapter's done. It feels so strange finally posting for POTO. And please remember what I said earlier: If I seem to have neglected this story, bombard me with complaints to continue, even if you don't really like it that much. I, however, do enjoy it immensely, and since I sometimes need a little push to get me back on track, I'll depend on you all to help me out here. Once again, I doubt this will happen; I love it too much to abandon it! :)

So, please review/favorite to your heart's content; it certainly makes mine extremely happy! I hope you enjoyed the prologue. Oh, and by the way, the chapter's title is in French (of course) and it means "On the Still Wings of Solitude." The title of the story "Au Milieu de la Nuit" means "In the Middle of the Night." If you ever see errors with my French, either, correct me with that too, please. :) I always appreciate it.


	2. Chapter 1

**AN: I just realized how long my last author's note was... Sorry about that! :) I tend to ramble. But I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who reviewed and the one person who put my story on their alert list. Thank you for your support, and I hope you enjoy this chapter! (!SPOILERS! A new girl enters the picture, and you can just guess who she is.) All French translations are at the end of the chapter. (btw, I won't be using a lot of French in this fic; this is a rare occurance.)**

**My disclaimer for the last chapter applies for this whole story, alright? ;D**

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: Le Trou dans son Armure<strong>

Erik's life at court was, if nothing else, luxurious. He had an extravagant apartment with the richest of draperies and the best quality of furniture. Any supplies he needed for his projects, whether deeply scientific or purely whimsical, were always available to him should he request it. He was the shah's right hand man; the person the young ruler went to whenever he needed a consult. Erik's extensive knowledge of practically every form of architecture and illusion, as well as basic guidelines to every other topic mankind has even had the urge to study, made him a valuable ally to the Persian ruler. His acceptance of acting as an assassin for the shah without qualm, no matter if there was a reason for death or not or how gruesome said murder was, was infinitely convenient to both the shah and also his mother, the khanum.

Even though Erik had such extravagant objects available to him, like silks and jewels that the common people of Tehran would sell their children for, he never utilized them. He replaced the rich, colorful cloth hanging around his rooms with thick curtains of a smooth solid black. Not one jewel adorned his fingers, encircled his wrist, or hung around his neck, due to his lack of interest in displaying his wealthy position so openly and the fact that such trinkets always got in the way while he was hard at work. The shah let his offers of riches and gold pass the magician by with a perplexed expression, but never commented. Who was he to care if Erik never wanted to have an enormous ruby ring or flawless Persian robes? It meant all the more for him to keep to himself. No, it was the khanum instead who was so interested by Erik's indifference. Thus far, her attempts at finding out the reasons behind such apathy were utterly unsuccessful. That masked genius had the toughest armor surrounding his mind that she'd ever encountered, perhaps even greater than her own. This was what ultimately led her to pursue his company so often; the idea of him being the only person who didn't snap under her pressure fascinated her.

Riches meant nothing to Erik. His goal was climbing up the social ladders, earning respect to make up for the lack of it in his past. The humiliation of his childhood fed his drive for achievement, for someone to look at him with anything even closely akin to admiration. He'd never admit it to himself, though, this idea of him yearning for acceptance. If asked, and if he deigned to respond, he would say it was merely a way to pass the time, to feed the ache in his brain that quested for discovery, the analytical and scientific section of his advanced mind calling out for answers. Never would his intimidating, dark persona ever admit to him caring about what the human race thought of his accomplishments. He himself didn't even realize that was his secret agenda.

When he first arrived in Persia after the daroga escorted him there from Russia, he worked day and night, entertaining the shah, the khanum, and the rest of the court with his games and tricks. His mischievous mind made the performances all the more easy, and he soon strived to be more than just a court magician. He'd hidden his architectural talents away, instead focusing on showcasing his bloodlust, which resonated with the khanum's own sadistic soul. Soon, he was murdering enemies of the shah and the court each night, sometimes slaughtering innocent families without blinking an eye. He remained unaffected, though, even going so far as to subtly request the shah to assign him to take out any person who stares a bit longer than he was comfortable with at his mask. The screams fell on deaf ears and his eyes offered no mercy to the crying, pleading victims. All the Angel of Doom was concerned with was rising up higher in Persian society, getting a sick sense of satisfaction when the shah congratulated him and rewarded him for successful missions. With his constant triumphs in everything that was asked of him, the shah soon appointed him as his unofficial advisor, the person he went to for advice but never paid for when he gave his answers. Erik didn't mind; he saw this solely as a way to gain more of the shah's respect. He didn't know what his goal was, what he'd do when he reached a certain level of society. If he felt like being completely honest with himself, he could probably admit that he really had no goal in mind; instead just killing for pleasure and seeking a way to pass the time in his strive for respect and equality.

Over the course of three years, he worked and slaved tirelessly for the Persian court, never having more than a few hours rest to work on his own projects. Occasionally, the shah would run out of errands for him to do, which suited Erik just fine as well. Though he typically didn't have many days off, when he did, he spent them holed up in his room, channeling his artistic nature in the most obscure projects he could think of. Sculptures and paintings were created and cremated immediately after completion. He'd gaze at them for a short time, critiquing them and mentally correcting himself. Though many would call them faultless works of utter genius, Erik's perfectionist nature would find error after error, problems, faults and inconsistencies at every angle, until he would become so nauseated with disgust that he'd take it to the smithy and throw it into the furnace, watching it burn and never allowing any other eyes to view it. If no one saw any err in his genius, he could lose no respect.

Once, his frustration had been so severe that he couldn't possibly find the patience to take the piece to the furnace for its cremation. Instead, in his fit of rage, he pulled the curtains aside, opened his window, and flung it out into the hot Persian air. It narrowly missed the daroga below him when it splintered on contact with the ground.

He instilled fear into every heart and mind within miles of wherever he resided. This constant terror gave him the confidence to become an alluring, passionate figure without ever laying a hand on a woman. Horror struck everyone's core when they saw him, but with females, it came with an instinctual need to pair with him in bed. His thick dark clothing hid his sickeningly skinny frame, and the mask and wig concealed the rest of the dreadfulness of his natural body. With nothing to physically repulse them, Erik radiated an aura of mysteriousness and danger that appealed to a woman's instincts. He never acted on this reaction to him, though he was definitely aware of it, and as such had never shared his bed with anyone.

The khanum had become enthralled by this sexual atmosphere and was fascinated by him. Seeing as her soul and heart were empty, she had no desire to actually writhe beneath his bedclothes, though she couldn't help but be spellbound by his endless grace and mesmerized by his captivating eyes. It wasn't attraction, but instead a sick obsession. This was the primary source of Erik's caution, and as such, he tried to keep contact with her to a minimum.

It's a rare occurrence indeed when he succeeds.

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><p>The morning after the khanum's summons, Erik was ushered down by the daroga, who constantly kept his eyes averted. The magician could tell that something had happened and that only made him more wary of the shah's sudden request for his company. Meetings with the cruel, malicious, and spoiled ruler always ended with much misfortune on Erik's part. Usually, when there were assassinations to be committed, the shah would send the daroga to Erik's private chambers with a list of targets; no direct contact would ever come between them. Summons to see him in person always sent a warning bell through Erik's head.<p>

Two large eunuchs, built of heavy, thick muscle and empty personalities, put their large arms to good use and wrenched open the double doors of pure gold that marked the entryway to the shah's private quarters. Sounds of suppressed strain rumbled from their tightly closed lips as their shoes scrambled softly against the floor and the doors steadily parted. The chamber revealed was large and airy with a high ceiling and empty squares carved out of the stoned walls for windows. A large intricate carpet covered most of the warm stone floor, its complex designs swirling within someone's gaze and causing distraction from the dangerous surroundings. Eunuchs were spread throughout the room against the walls, each holding a vicious looking blade. Heavy tapestries hung in random places about the room, seeming to have been placed sporadically, but all tying together in a sophisticated artistic design. The shah himself was seated in the golden throne-like chair at the end of the long chamber, his eyes burning into his latest visitor. A rainbow of jewels adorned all ten fingers, with countless golden bands circling his arms all the way up to the beginning of his thin robes, starting at his shoulders. It seemed to be crafted of the finest silk, with the lightest, most comfortable slippers hugging his large feet. There had to have been no less than twenty chains around his neck, each necklace holding a jewel encrusted brooch at the end. A large diamond dangled from each of his ears and a fine turban enshrouded his brown head, concealing his black hair completely. A small beard surrounded his mouth, which was currently in the shape of a blank grin. Two beady eyes stared out ruthlessly at his magician as he stepped into the room.

Erik glided up the length of the room, his grace making it seem like he wasn't even taking a single step, just moving along in a cluster of fluttering robes. His eyes held a confidence he always carried, but were still hard with wariness. His chin held high and his eyes direct and piercing, in practically every respect, Erik was more suited for royalty than the true ruler.

"My lord," Erik greeted, slipping down effortlessly onto one knee and lowering his eyes with a respect he would never have.

"Erik, doubtless you're wondering why I've summoned you here," the shah began, not even deigning to give the magician a proper greeting. In his eyes, anyone in a lower status didn't deserve a proper greeting.

"You've captured my attention, my lord," Erik responded politely, if a little blandly. Such conversational trivialities always caused impatience to spark inside.

"I simply wished to give you my request in person… and to speak about an important matter with you."

"I'm all ears, my lord."

The shah then rattled off a long list of people he wanted Erik to hunt down. They were all Persians who attended court and were rumored to disagree with the shah. There was no proof, though, but nevertheless, the Persian ruler wanted blood. And who better to accomplish the job in the most painful, effective, and _artistic _way possible than the Angel of Doom?

"Yes, my lord," Erik said once the shah ceased to catch his breath and his errant thoughts.

"Very good, magician," the shah replied, pleased with Erik's simple submission. "And now, we can get to the matter of importance. Our faithful daroga has informed me, just yesterday in his weekly report, that you've been concealing something from me."

"My lord?" Erik enquired, suppressing the urge to find the daroga and strangle him. If he told about his comments about the khanum, there would be hell to pay!

"He saw, after you went to visit my mother, that your rooms were filled with all sorts of architectural plans, all absolute perfection. My inquiry, magician, is about why you have kept your wonderful skill hidden from me."

"I didn't think it was relevant to my duties here," Erik responded quietly, feeling the atmosphere subtly thicken and a weight drop in his stomach.

"Hmm, well, I suppose it wasn't in the end. I'd heard of your abilities in the field back when you occupied Russia, but as soon as I discovered your other skills, all thoughts of architecture flooded from my mind." His eyes slid all over Erik's kneeling form, searching for any secrets that he could be hiding. "The daroga's observations, however, have reminded me."

Erik warily raised his gaze to clash with the shah's own hard stare.

"Please ready samples of your work. The daroga will come to pick them up tomorrow afternoon."

The masked magician had to make an effort to contain his indignant growl; no one was allowed to order him around like that. But there was nothing he could do in this situation except dip his head again and murmur, "Yes, my lord."

"Good. Now leave me be." The shah raised his voice and shouted towards the door. "Bring her in!"

Erik swiftly rose and turned to leave. As he was making his way to the door, a slip of a girl entered the room and made her way up to the shah. As she passed by him, Erik saw that she was dressed in the tattered remains of what would have once been an expensive and very fine set of underclothes. She had on a few underskirts and a ratty bodice, all covered with grime and stained with mud. Her wrists were encased in metal cuffs, chains dangling from her slender arms leading back to the eunuch at the door holding them. Her hands were shaking with terror and yet Erik wouldn't look up at her face; she didn't concern him. In fact, she was probably one of Tehran's citizens that the shah wanted to teach a lesson, most likely beneath his bedclothes.

As they passed by each other, Erik's eyes caught traces of pale skin beneath the dirt on her hands. His feet skidded to a stop and he glanced at her face, startled.

Clear blue eyes met his golden ones, the color being one he hadn't seen since he's occupation in Persia began. Tear tracks made long columns down her cheeks amongst the dirt, morbidly reminding him of claw marks. The young woman; who looked to be around twenty if her figure was anything to go by, since her face was too coated with muck to be helpful with his judgment; noticed that he'd stopped to look at her and quickly whipped around to face him. She clutched at his thin arm with her small hands, looking pleadingly into his masked face. She appeared to not even notice the black covering.

"_S'il vous plaït, monsieur…_" she whispered brokenly, "_aidez-moi…_"

Erik felt a shock of lightning rack his mind with shock. The French rolling from her small mouth in a sweet voice was like a balm to his scorched, starved mind; it'd been far too long since he'd heard his native tongue. For the past three years, he'd only heard Persian, even going so far as to actually think in the language. He glanced back at the shah and was relieved to see that he was too distracted with the jewels on his fingers to be paying them much attention.

"_S'il vous plait_," she repeated quietly, the hope already leaving her innocent eyes dim once more. Erik tried to pull away from her grasp, and she immediately let him go, her hands falling lifeless to her sides once more. She turned away from him to continue her trek up to the shah, her whole figure being dejection personified. Erik could sympathize with her, though he had no desire to help her with her obviously grim predicament; he could, however, understand pain all too well.

"_Je regrette, mademoiselle_," he said softly in her ear, using his ventriloquism to caress her with his flawless voice. He saw her repress a shiver at the sound before whipping around to face him.

"_Me comprenez-vous_?" she asked quickly, excitedly, her eyes lighting up even as she kept her voice low.

Erik glanced back at the shah quickly, radiating the calmest aura now that the shock had been overcome. The dim ruler could only be distracted with his trinkets for so long; he had to get away from this woman before it spelled out Erik's demise.

He nodded in response to her question, but hardened his gaze when her lips broke into a smile, revealing perfectly straight, small white teeth.

"_Mais je ne peux pas vous aider_."

He quickly tore of out the room before the shah noticed his interruption and before he saw the hopelessness creep once more back into the woman's eyes.

Erik spent the rest of the day and the entire night in his rooms, sitting at the cushioned seat beneath his wide window. The thick black curtain was drawn back, letting the moonlight shine in. It poured over Erik's black figure and he felt its cool light illuminate his torn, scarred face, his black mask resting on the floor nearby. The French language burned on his tongue, screaming to be released in all of its smooth glory. His fingers twitched nervously, not because he could be caught and his face could be discovered; they squirmed for a feeling he had long since denied them. They craved the violin he was forced to lock away, for fear of distraction. Music was burning deep inside; a fire scorching through his veins, setting fire to the faux life of silence he'd been living. The girl had not once crossed his mind during this midnight recollection. She had broken the wall he'd used to numb himself and now he was suffering the consequence.

For the first time, under the cover of night, Erik didn't understand what was happening. The only thing that made sense was music and his body was starving for it.

He spent the rest of the night locking these yearnings away once again, like a small child guiltily replacing the cork back into the glass candy jar after consuming a piece.

Erik was horrified at how much he still craved another.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: And thus the first official chapter is done. :) I don't think Christine will be in the next chapter, since it'll likely be setting everything up for the trials to come, but expect some EC interraction coming up soon. Erik might not have paid her much interest so far, but it's only a matter of time, I guarantee. Anywho, thanks once again to those who reviews, double points to the one who put this on their story alert list. I'd give you a cookie if my cat hadn't already licked all the chocolate chips. ;)<strong>

**Please review/alert/favorite. It's a great inspiration to me and gives me motivation to update faster than I normally do! And now that I'm trying to save up money to go to Otakon this summer by doing odd jobs around the house (paying for admission, cosplay, and extra for food and souvenirs), I'll be tight pressed for a little while as I scrape together my pennies. I'll be scrambling for that while prepping for finals, so my free time is limited. However, I'll make the best use of all my free time to keep updates for this regular and to reread my Sherlock Holmes collection. Once again, I adore this story, and it will not be discontinued. Just help me make sure I don't take too long with updates, and we'll be fine. :)**

**Thanks for the feeback, dear readers. :D**

French translations:

"Please, sir, help me. Please..."

"I'm sorry."

"You can understand me?"

*nods* "But I can not help you."


End file.
